Is she not the greatest
Cacophony,
The most incorrect riff in your masterpiece?
Is she not a misstep and a misfit,
A hop, skip, and a sorry
Off the flattest of all your sheets?
Is she not too morose
For any day you choose to smile
And extensively, incandescently happy
On your most wet and underwhelmed?
That one extra, operative syllable
In your most formally metered poetry?
The very last minute run
In your only pair of stockings?
The off-tune violin string?
The single pothole
You somehow managed to fall in?
The hangnail?
The loose thread?
The nagging voice inside your head?
Is she not
The most marvelous inconvenience?
The shadow in your almost
Perfectly shiny bubble?
Is she not a mistake?
Is she not?
Is she not what thrills you completely?
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